Upside Down: Bad night out

“Irma thought a large bowl of asparagus would somehow counteract the six donuts and two milkshakes she had just eaten.”

That’s my favorite food joke.

It came in handy when boiled cauliflower arrived at a “world famous local icon” in Key Largo, though the rest of the menu was fried, buttered, cheesy or otherwise fattened up for the hoards, while we griped about every single thing they put on the table.

Hey, we even griped about the table.

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Years ago you’d stroll down a street, gaze in a restaurant, look at a real live paper menu, and decide whether this could be the start of a good night out.

Now 401 websites offer an encyclopedia of opinions by strangers who tell strangers where to eat. These people are so busy eating themselves they don’t know where a corn dog stops and an avocado mousse begins.

If it’s a bad meal, you’re mad at the whole darn world that sent you there. You want to grab a guy by the collar: “Did you send me there buddy because you owe me 70 bucks?”

What if your Uncle Joe had written the review? Or your Cousin Rita? Would you ever trust Rita? How do you know if reviews were written by sophisticated health conscious near-starving vegans or overweight cheesecake-guzzling pork rind enthusiasts?

At the risk of offending the multitudes at this “gourmet touch” hangout -- one reviewer said it’s decorated “so tastefully with license plates”-- I won’t mention the name. Let’s just say it’s Chez Diner in the Florida Keys -- those islands skinnier than the people who live there and glued together by the droppings of pelicans and turkey vultures.

It was highly recommended by 1,129 trip advisor people. Or were they turkey vultures seeking a supply of juicy pickins?

Determined to be local -- meaning smoking a cigarette passed the butt, doing all human activity to old pop songs, and being so laid-back you must order dinner at 7 a.m. for 7 p.m. -- we went to this so-called gem because we wanted to go bite-for-bite with the alligator strips listed as an appetizer.

This “Key-easy” place has one table that faces the dishwasher. Let me make this clear: The table faces a team of human dishwashers and the slop bucket destined for the vultures that prefer turkey but will eat a signature “bar-b-q porkwich” in a pinch.

Wanting to fit right in, we called ahead and were told, surprisingly, a table was available and they would be happy, pleased, thrilled to hold it just for us.

You guessed it; it was the slop table none of the 47 people waiting in line would take.

“It’s fine,” said Raybo, “I can do it,” staring at half-masticated meatballs and mahi mahi, while I only felt the rinsing spray on the back of my neck.

“Are you sure you won’t be sick to death in five minutes and become carrion for the birds?” I asked.

“I’m good” he beamed, not wanting to act like city folk who can’t relax -- you know, people who actually want to control what they eat and what they see while they eat it.

“Could we move?” I asked our young waitress pointing to a booth now available.

“Sorry my dears, but that’s for four people” she drawled, then we watched as two people -- one, two -- were seated there.

I guess we weren’t local enough.

Then Raybo, also staring at a bare light bulb dipping below its elegant shade of license plates, began to apply sunscreen fearing he would end up both sick and red. We turned the bulb on, off, on, off, until it looked like we were running a disco in the corner.

“Things are adding up,” admitted the good sport, biting into a dinner roll crisp and chewy as a cotton ball.

Then his broiled seafood platter arrived with the “r” missing in broil.

“It’s barely cooked,” he said curtly to our waitress, showing his geographical roots. “And boil and fish are two words that shouldn’t be in the same sentence.”

By this time we were getting stares and a hiss or two and we learned laid-back in the Keys doesn’t mean you won’t get laid-out by the locals and sent to the slop bucket.

Maybe that’s what the turkey vultures are eating, “bar-b-q gripe-wich.”

Come to think of it, with the locals sick and tired of us testy tourists, I bet that’s what they’re feasting on too. Finally . . . I know why the reviews are so darn good.

Donna Debs is a long-time freelance writer, a former radio news reporter, and a certified Iyengar yoga teacher. She lives in Tredyffrin. E-mail her at ddebs@comcast.net.